


Hats off to you, Eds.

by eddieklives



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Attorneys at Law AU, Character Study, Dreams, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Relapse, Sobriety, Sort Of, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddieklives/pseuds/eddieklives
Summary: Eddie wakes up in the middle of the night, sees his therapist, has lunch with Bev, cries and goes grocery shopping.[Side prose for social media AU Attorneys At Law on Twitter]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh
Comments: 5
Kudos: 80





	Hats off to you, Eds.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Domi and Cathy for beta reading this and to Domi for the translations!
> 
> Content warnings and possible triggers [PLEASE READ]: depression, discussion of antidepressants and medication, alcoholism, relapse, self-hate, ranting, spiralling, catastrophizing, loss of a parent, mention of the ICE facilities and family separation, xenophobia, immigration.

**November 9th, 2018**

_ I fucking fell in love with you for this?  _

Eddie rolled over and grabbed the covers until his knuckles turned white. 

_ I guess so.  _

As he’s dreaming, he can tell it isn’t reality, because this isn’t how it happened. In the dream, they’re in Richie’s room, together, with Richie sitting on the bed, his knees up to his chest, and Eddie pacing the length of the bedroom, fisting his hair. This isn’t how it happened. It happened over text. Eddie likes to believe that, had it been in person, the conversation would have gone differently, that Richie would have seen him, looked at him the way only Richie Tozier did, and he would have known Eddie loved him. Maybe Eddie wouldn’t be in Mike and Bill’s guestroom, maybe he would be with Richie, curled up against his back, kissing the top of his spine and holding him close, keeping him warm. The way he longed to be again.

Since the hospital, Eddie had dreamt of Richie a handful of times, all of them painful to wake up from. One night he dreamt of nothing but the look on Richie’s face when he uttered those words in court. Over and over again.  _ Mr Hanscom, does your wife consider you responsible for the death of your child? _ Then the sound of crying; then Richie’s face. In a loop, the whole night. Another time, Eddie dreamt of Richie’s smile and the creases in his eyes, of their first night together when Eddie stayed; that one was Eddie’s favourite, but he still woke up with a pain in his chest and a burning in his eyes that kept him awake the rest of the night. If he could go back, he would make sure he stayed every single night, the world be damned. 

_ Hats off to you, Counselor. _

Eddie bolted up in bed, a hand travelling up to his chest on instinct, trying to soothe his breathing. “Fuck, shit, fuck,” he ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath through his nose, feeling his shoulders relax with the slow exhale that followed. He felt around the bed and soon found his phone. He had been sleeping with it close by, just in case.  _ Just in case Rich- _ It was in case of an emergency, or so Eddie told himself upon starting to fall asleep still holding it in his hand, an empty conversation with Richie open and hidden behind a locked screen; it was pathetic.

He entered the passcode with ease and bit the inside of his cheek upon noting the lack of notifications. Eddie threw the phone to the other side of the mattress and rubbed his face with both hands, bending forward until he heard a crack in his back. With all the concern with checking for notifications he may have slept through, he had forgotten to check the time. Dragging himself across the bed, he found the phone again. 3:47 am. Fuck. He fell back on the bed with a loud thud. Then he started counting, quietly, just to himself.

“16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9…” He sighed. “Twenty-five days.” Eddie wanted to scream, but couldn’t. Bill and Mike were asleep and he had caused them enough trouble, without waking them up at three in the morning kicking and screaming because what? Because his crush hadn’t texted him? Ridiculous.  _ He’s not a crush, Ed-  _ “Shut up! Shit-” He paused, waiting for any sign that Mike and Bill had woken up, listening in for footsteps or worried calls coming from their bedroom. Nothing happened. 

He slammed the back of his head on his pillow several times before calming down. He picked up the phone for the third time that night.  _ I miss you _ , he typed and deleted just as fast.  _ I love you _ , he typed; this one he let hang on his screen, staring at it, repeating it to himself like a mantra. Eddie closed his eyes and thought about his dream.

_ I fucking fell in love with you for this? _

_ I love you, too. _

_ I fucking fell in love with you for th- _

_ Look at me, just look at me, I love you so m- _

_ I fucking fell in love with you for- _

_ No. Not for this. Never for this. _

He locked his phone and went back to sleep, hoping that this time he could change the ending.

*******

When Eddie woke up again it was morning. It was November in New York, but the sun was shining through his half-closed blinds, bringing him a little bit of hope for the day about to begin. At least he had managed to sleep after his dream and, after giving himself a couple of seconds to think, he concluded that he hadn't dreamt again, so that was good. Talking about his dreams was not something he was looking forward to in therapy. In his first appointment, he talked about the fever dream he had at the hospital before he had been fully conscious, about how his brain kept throwing him into different memories from his childhood, youth, and early adulthood.

Eddie didn't appreciate being psychoanalyzed any more than any other person. Being told by a stranger why he does the things he does was not his idea of improvement, but the opposite. He had already lived 42 years guided by the rules in someone else's book. He was done with it all; he was done with the rules. The rules had cost him enough already: the love he lost, the time he couldn't get back, the happiness of what could have been. Fuck his entire life and every choice he’d ever made in his barely above mediocre existence. 

Eddie was pushed out of his brain by a sudden knock and his door creaking open slightly. He startled, but relaxed once he realized it was just Bill.

"Hey. Are you still going out with Bev for lunch?"

Eddie, who had somehow forgotten that little detail (or, at the very least, hadn't been awake long enough to remember it), rubbed his eyes and nodded.

"Alright. Mike and I are hitting the grocery store, do you want anything?"

"I want a drink." Eddie looked at Bill with a slight grin on his lips and a tired look in his eyes.

"Oh, he's got jokes!" Bill laughed as he walked back out.

Eddie went quiet and stared at his hands, nodding.  _ It wasn’t a joke. _ He felt cold suddenly which was unusual for him; Eddie was the annoying guy you’d see at the grocery store wearing a t-shirt in 20º F weather. Not that Eddie ever really wore t-shirts in public, if he had a choice in the matter. Now, with the current state of his life, he hadn’t been feeling the expensive suits as much. They had always been sort of like an outfit, an armour. In a courtroom and at the firm, the suit worked like an invisibility cloak, and that was what Eddie strived for, passing through day-to-day life unnoticed if he could help it. If he  _ had _ to psychoanalyze himself there, his history with clothes would probably be the reason why he had spent so much money on novelty socks. If he could change just one little thing about himself at a time, the things he could control, the things that would go unnoticed by most, if he could just  _ do that _ , maybe he would be alright. Eventually.

Since moving in with Bill and Mike, Eddie felt like he was going through most days on autopilot. He would like to believe he was just taking his time, being mindful of his choices and moves for the first time, but the reality was that he was just numb. It took him longer to get ready in the morning, even though he had cut his routine by at least six steps, and he wasn't as careful with himself. He didn't shave every day anymore, nor did he moisturize with three different lotions. He used his facewash still, though; brushed his teeth twice a day.

Choosing what to wear had gotten harder without the excuse to wear a suit every day, and Eddie had been mostly sticking to his polos and button-downs. He wondered if the current decline in his self-confidence and motivation was related to his wardrobe choices. The suits always made him feel a little taller, a little more respectable. He still remembered the first suit he had gotten fitted for him, it had been expensive and Eddie had been proud of it. Now, he couldn't imagine anything more stupid than finding your sense of self in how much money you could drop on 3 pieces of clothing. That suit had cost more than the one he had gotten for his wedding and if that's not a red flag, Eddie wasn't quite sure what was.

The truth, if he had to say it, was that Eddie was tired. He wanted to be better, to get better, but he was also impatient, always had been, and waiting for it to stop hurting, knowing that it would still hurt for a very long time no matter how hard he worked on it, was discouraging. He wanted to get better now. It was childish really, his need for immediacy. Just like a child, Eddie was currently functioning strictly along the pleasure-pain spectrum. He read in a book that, and he will be paraphrasing, you cannot conspire for happiness, and thinking there are rules to happiness is the very thing preventing you from finding it; and that the difference between a child and an adult is not their age, and it’s not what they choose to do, it’s why they do it. Children function in pain-pleasure dichotomies, their actions and needs are conditioned by their immediate result. It’s hard to grow and practice unconditionality because it requires faith in yourself and others. Both of these, Eddie had been incapable of.

It didn’t matter. That seemed to be Eddie’s favourite expression as of late: it doesn’t matter. He could paraphrase all the books he wanted, it would change nothing. Not what he did, certainly not how he felt. The truth was clear; Eddie couldn’t get rid of the pain, maybe it would hurt forever for all he knew. Still, he knew pain to be the only universal constant, and his (failed attempts) to avoid it had only brought him worse in the long run. The more you numb it, the stronger it becomes, until you have to numb it harder and harder, and isn’t that basically how addiction works?

So what then? He would go to therapy once a week, AA meetings twice. What then? Medication? Sure, he was no stranger to pills, but he could keep going. What then? Would he be in therapy forever? He knew this was the case for some people, but he didn’t want that, he didn’t want to need that. Eddie grappled at that moment with the fact that his mother’s obsession with and her insistence on keeping up appearances and avoiding outside judgement from people, lived on through him. The indoctrination had worked out perfectly. She would have been proud to see him live in semi-hiding.

Since a young age, Eddie had always felt bad for not remembering his father, for not being able to place him in his head. He had seen a couple of photos of him, but even in those, his face was barely visible. He’s holding Eddie in them; the first was taken just after he was born, the second on his first birthday. Those are all the memories Eddie could claim to have of his father, although they were mostly fictitious, moments Eddie had come up with in his head as a young boy to match the polaroids, stories he could tell at school for father’s day, just before going home and throwing away whatever card he had made in class before his mother could see it and toss it out in a crying haze. Eddie wasn’t sure he ever forgave her for that.

She never told him about Frank, and by the time Eddie was old enough, she had already removed every single one of his pictures from sight. Whenever Eddie tried to ask about him, about Poland and their family, she would cry, or dismiss it, saying they only had each other.  _ Nie ma już tam dla nas miejsca, Eddie. W Polsce już nie ma dla nas miejsca _ , she would say. “There’s no place for us there anymore, Eddie. There’s no place for us in Poland,” and Eddie would believe her. Now, after all these years, he wondered if it was the truth, or if, somewhere across the Atlantic, someone wondered about his father too, or if they knew about Eddie at all.

*******

It started with Eddie’s head in his hands.

“I’ve been wondering, thinking about how I got to this place, how I managed to fuck up every single decision I’ve ever made, without even having to try. Maybe  _ that’s how _ ; maybe not trying at all is how you fuck up a life. I’ve been dreaming a lot, you know? Not the good kind, not daydreaming, I- I’ve been having dreams, bad ones. They’re not nightmares, but… They’re worse versions of reality, they’re- Sometimes they’re perfect little memories, but that doesn’t make them good dreams, not when I wake up and realize I’m alone in that bed and he’s not- I dream about him a lot, in summary. Like an idiot, I’ve found myself trying to change the ending. I’m aware that I’m dreaming, I should have started with that. It’s like watching myself through a one-way mirror, watching myself make the same mistakes over and over again, unable to change them. That’s a metaphor, right? For how no matter what I do the past will always be there to haunt me, the things I did will always be in the back of my mind and of the mind of those I hurt. No matter how much they say they forgive me, do they really? Can they? I wouldn’t. I hold grudges, I’m a bad person. Look, for example, I think my mother raised me well. I think she did the best she could with what she had and with what was possible for her. She was neurotic, paranoid, scared. I don’t think she was evil- I- Don’t want to entertain the possibility that the times she hurt me were on purpose. And if you try to convince me that her concerns about her illegal status and the danger that hung over our heads were just a way to control me, a way to keep me at her side, fully dependent on her and with no other friends to turn to, I will fight you on it until the end. Not because I don’t think it’s true, but because I don’t want it to be. We’ve established that I avoid the truths of my life, right? But she did…other things, outside of the whole immigration stuff, things that hurt me as a child, things that still hurt me today. And I haven’t forgiven her for those, I've realized. I- I never knew my father, always felt like I was missing a limb because of it. All I wanted was to feel any sort of connection to him, to home- Poland, I mean. I think that he would have wanted me to have a connection to it, but she always fought me on it. Never let me- she never let me- And I would write dad letters and cards for father’s day and I would throw them away scared she would see them and cry again. I wonder why, I wonder why she always seemed to hate Poland so much. I always thought it was because she wanted to fully assimilate into the American culture - I practically had to beg her to teach me Polish and it soon became clear it was a necessity because she had very limited English - but, fuck, I could have assimilated just fine even if I knew what my fucking dad looked like, if he had siblings, or if my grandparents were alive. Anything, I would have been happy with any crumb she fed me. But she refused. I don’t know who I am and I'm not a therapist, but if I had to guess I would say mommy issues and the pain of growing up without a father have something to do with it. Write that down: the patient is becoming self-aware.”

“Hm. Why do you think you have mommy issues?”

Eddie sat back up and straightened his back. “Did you not hear everything I just said?”

“No, I heard it. I just wanna know how you think the things she said influenced your decisions.”

Eddie shrugged like the answer was obvious. “We had rules.”

“Rules?” Dr Barlow pressed.

“Yes, I- Look, I knew what I had to do to be accepted, to survive.”

“I’m listening.”

Eddie threw his head back and groaned, then he cracked his neck.

“Look, I… Here’s what you have to understand- Are you an immigrant? Or do you know any? Actually, you know what? It doesn’t fucking matter, does it? None of it does, but I’ll tell you anyway since you asked. When you’re an immigrant, especially from the countries people are most prejudiced against - and fuck, in this sense, I’m one of the lucky ones, Poland isn’t regarded as that bad, although back then it was - you have to lay-low when you’re young, you have to lay-low until you have something to fucking  _ show _ , something that says I fucking  _ made it _ , I’m one of the fucking _ big guys, now _ . If you allow yourself to be seen before you have something worth seeing, good fucking luck. I heard ”Get these dirty immigrants back to their countries“ on TV when I was 7 and, of course, my mother always had the worst possible TV channel on, the one with the most hate speech allowed was the one she would watch, full volume, while I tried to do my homework. America sells you this very specific thing, right?  _ The American Dream _ , success. Move here, the land of the  _ fucking free _ , and your kids will actually have a chance to make something of themselves, move here and they’ll have the opportunities you never dreamed of having when you were their age, move here, it’ll be worth it,  _ we promise _ . So, you move here, you buy into the American Promise, you get a shitty little apartment in Hell’s Kitchen because it’s all you can afford, you have a kid - an Official American, it says so on the birth certificate - you put him in his little overalls and you send him off to school - by the way, our Education System is a load of BS - and you hope, just to yourself, that the pain, the money, the prejudice you encountered will be worth it, that your kid will be successful. The kid grows up with this burden on his back. First-gen; gotta make it, gotta run. You have to achieve it, The American Dream. Or else you’re a dirty immigrant, not ”one of the good ones“. I never wanted to be one of the good ones, not really, but what did I have to lose you know? So, I got the expensive degree, which luckily for me I got in the early 2000s or I’d still be fucking paying it off, I got the job with the status, I got the reputation, the money, the success. Then, I got the wife, the house with the white picket fence… Thankfully, I was too much of a pussy to go for the whole two kids thing. She wanted to, but I- I still feel guilty about that, I took her wish of being a mother and ran with it, as far as I could. Maybe she’s relieved now though, with the divorce at all. So, yeah, I did it. I achieved The American Dream. And I was fucking miserable every second of it. And I guess that’s what it means when some say you can’t achieve happiness by following a rule-book. I followed all of the rules and here I am. What do I have to show for my life?”

It ended with Eddie crying.

“Sounds like you’re giving up.”

Eddie pulled his sleeves over his hands and cleaned his eyes and cheeks, before rubbing his face with his hands. When he spoke, his reply was muffled by the palm of his hand, like he knew he was about to say something he shouldn't.  _ Failure is shameful in the Kaspbrak residence, Eds. _ “Maybe I am, maybe I fucking should. It doesn’t matter what I do, I can’t make up for any of the things I did. I can’t start over. All I seem to do now is cry and lock myself in my room with my own brain and I’m fucking tired of it. No one should have to live 24 hours with the person they hate the most in the world, it has to be some kind of torture somewhere.”

“Are you the person you hate the most in the world?”

Eddie gave him a broken little smile and sniffled; he shook his head a few times. “Poetic justice.”

“I wanna know about these things you keep mentioning. What did you do that was so unforgivable in your eyes? If it’s so unforgivable why did you do it in the first place?”

“I didn’t know, I- I didn’t know what I was saying until it had already come out. Or maybe I did know, subconsciously, that it was the fastest way I could get out of that situation, I always go for the easy option. Anything to avoid facing the consequences of my actions.”

“What was it, Edward?” Dr Barlow asked, starting to feel a little impatient with Eddie’s avoidance. 

“I asked a friend, or at least he considered me a friend until I betrayed his trust in catastrophic proportions, if his wife blamed him for the death of their child. With the wife sitting behind me,” his lips rounded into a broken smile. “And Richie gave me the exact same look you’re giving me right now.”

*******

**Eddie: I had to talk about the trial today**

**About what I said at the trial**

**It didn’t go well**

**Bev: Meet me for lunch anyway**

**Please alright?**

It really was a beautiful day. The sun was out, despite it being November, and there had been no rain despite predictions saying otherwise. Eddie wouldn’t have brought an umbrella regardless, it was his own kind of rebellion. At Harvard, he was known for constantly being wet. Massachusetts is a rainy state and Eddie’s dorm was pretty far from the building where he sat most of his classes, so on rainy days - which were most of them - Eddie would be seen walking across campus, with no umbrella and only a Harvard hoodie on.  _ I miss my little human radiator, _ Richie’s voice echoed in his brain. Eddie smiled to himself, lost in memories of his college days and of his brief, albeit unforgettable, time with Richie.

Eddie didn’t notice Bev walking towards the table, which led to him startling when she flopped onto the seat in front of him.

“Hi!”

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie put a hand over his mouth and Beverly laughed out loud, pulling the attention of everyone else in the room towards them. “Jesus, fuck…”

“I’m sneaky.” She flashed him a teasing grin and Eddie lowered his hand, smiling back.

“Alright, sneaky. I- Um-”  _ Thank you for still coming, thank you for not being disgusted by me, thank you for being kind, thank y- _

“Relax. It’s just me.” She laid her hand on top of the table, palm facing up, offering it to him. Eddie wasn’t sure why he took it, but he did. Her voice, when she spoke again, was very soft, quiet, welcoming. Eddie immediately wanted to sob into his hands. “Are you okay?”

Eddie started shaking his head in small but fast motions, lips pursed and eyes red. “No, no- I’m…” He lowered his head and let go of Bev’s hand so he could cover his face. “I don’t wanna feel this anymore.” His voice cracked, and then he cried.

Bev sat with him for what, to him, felt like hours. It was the honest truth, the hardest truth, in fact. Eddie didn’t want to feel this anymore, Eddie didn’t want to feel much of anything anymore. Why he believed he could do this, face his life and the mess he had made of it, he didn’t know. He wanted something that could ease the pain, numb him from having to feel it at all. It was too much, he just needed a break from it. Wasn’t that why he drank? To get a break? Why shouldn't he drink? Why shouldn’t he do what helps him? Why should he be trying this hard for someone who didn’t seem to care? Richie didn’t ask about him, he didn’t. Why should Eddie go through this? Alone, no less. Why should Eddie spill his guts out to a stranger, in an office that probably cost more than his fucking apartment, with the hopes of finding himself or whatever the fuck he was trying to do? Why should Eddie sit in a room full of people and tell them about every embarrassing and fucked up thing he did while high or drunk? Why did Eddie have to be the one hurting? Was it karma? Shit, it probably was karma. Why did Eddie have to dream about Richie, only to wake up without him? Every night felt like losing him all over again.

“The more I talk about things, the worse I feel,” he managed to choke out as Bev grabbed a tissue from her backpack.

“You know, maybe that’s a good thing.” Her voice was still soft, despite her glaring at the couple one table over who had been staring at Eddie as he cried. “You stopped yourself from feeling things for so long, it’s all coming out at once. But once it’s out, once it’s in the world and not weighing heavy on your heart, it’s gonna feel so much better, Eddie.” She reached across the table to grab his hand. “It has to get worse before it can get better, honey. And it will get better.”

Eddie smiled at her and she whipped around on her chair.

“Now where’s the waiter, I want Spaghetti- Hey! Spagh-Eddie, get it? It rhymes!”

Eddie started crying again.

Beverly slurped her spaghetti, as Eddie grabbed probably too much penne at once with his fork and shoved it into his mouth. Fuck, he was hungry.

“Self-loathing must burn calories,” he joked.

Beverly nearly choked but started laughing once she realized Eddie was trying to lighten the mood. She leaned forward as if she was gonna let him in on a secret. “Pregnancy doesn’t really make you hungry or have to eat for two, that’s just an excuse.”

“I know,” Eddie leaned in and whispered back at her, prompting a few chuckles. Then he sat back on his chair again, straightening his back. “You should eat whatever you want, you’re growing a person. You can do whatever you want forever.”

She slurped one single strand of spaghetti into her mouth. “You didn’t want kids?”

Eddie kicked the penne around with his fork for a while, before managing an answer. “Nah.”  _ Fantastic, Edward, ten out of ten. Knocked it out of the park. _ “Fucking ‘Nah’.” He muttered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing. Thinking.” He shook his head to bring himself out of his last conversation with Richie. “How’s Ben feeling?”

“Oh, good! Therapy is going really well for him. And we also have couple’s therapy once a week, so… It’s gonna be alright, I think.”

Eddie nodded.

“Eddie. When we said we forgive you-”

“I know, I- Please, don’t… Don’t let me ruin lunch. I-”

“Have you talked to Richie at all?”

“Fff-” His leg was getting quite the workout with the way it was bouncing. He stared out the window. “No. I don’t think, uh- I don’t think that horse is in the race, Bev.”

“Right, because there’s no horse, and there’s no race. There’s you and there’s him.”

Eddie shrugged. “Look, I can tell you I love him all I want. I could tell him, too. I would tell him over and over again, if that’s what it took. It doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t change that he never came to see me, or that he hasn’t texted or called. And, honestly, maybe he shouldn’t after what I did. Not just to you and Ben, but to him. So, I get it. If he fucking hates me, I get it.”

“Eddie, Richie couldn’t fucking hate you if he tried. He wishes he could, but I’m sure you’ve wished to hate him as well. And I shouldn’t talk about this with you anyway, because I have been forbidden.”

“The fuck?”

“He told me not to.”

“Why?”

“Why are you going through therapy and AA right now, Eddie?” She pressed.

“I- Because-” Eddie’s mouth hung open for a few seconds as he searched for an answer that could be acceptable. He ended up closing it.

“Because of him? Right?” Bev signalled for the waiter. “He thinks so, too. He fucking hates it.” The waiter reached their table and smiled at them. “Hi, honey, can we get two Sundays? Chocolate syrup? Thank you.” Beverly turned her attention back to Eddie. “You’re gonna eat some fucking ice cream and we’re gonna shut up about  _ He Who Shall Not Be Named _ , before I rip your hair out, follicle by follicle, one at a time.”

Eddie laughed so hard his chest hurt.

“You need a scenery change. Or like, a career change,” she said immediately before giving herself a brain freeze.

“I already did the career change bit.” He smiled, watching her struggle through that bite of ice cream. “Haven’t put that change into practice yet, though. The withdrawal headaches have been bad, I can’t concentrate on anything for long enough to do my job. And I have a prescription for antidepressants now; that’s already making me nervous and I haven’t even bought the damn pills yet. I’ve been reading emails, for now, that’s it. That’s all I’ve managed.”

“All you have to give is your best, Eddie. Recovery isn’t gonna happen over night, I know you know that. Baby steps, take it slow, try new things. Maybe take up journaling!” Eddie gave her a resigned little smile before she continued, her voice coming out softer this time. “And about the medication… It could go well, it could go wrong. Hopefully, you get it right on the first try. It does help, though, you’ll see.” She smiled sympathetically at him,

“Thanks, Bev…” He nodded slowly, a weak little smile on his lips. “For lunch and for the talk.”

Beverly’s eyes shone for a split second before she fixed them on his half-unfinished Sunday and grinned. “You gonna eat that?”

Eddie shook his head and chuckled. “No, go ahead.”

*******

The walk back home was calmer than Eddie had expected when he first sent Beverly the texts trying to cancel their lunch plans. He felt somewhat alright, within reason, but he wasn’t about to get his hopes up.

Beverly was sweeter than Eddie deserved her to be, and definitely, more understanding than Eddie had ever been in his own life, whether to himself or others. She was compassionate and genuine, funny too. Eddie understood why Richie loved her, why he looked out for her like a sister. He understood why Patty had held her the way she had in the courthouse after they had been let out of the courtroom, and in relation to that, he understood why he had gotten socked in the jaw. He had to give it to Patty, she had a killer upper-cut.

When he got home, he slammed down on the couch and turned on the TV. Immediately, his eyes widened. He was right about not keeping his hopes up about his mood because just as the screen came to life, his face dropped. The screen read, in big, bold letters:  _ US Border Patrol: Hundreds of children kept in cages at the Texas border. _

**November 10th, 2018**

Eddie wasn’t sure how long it had been; how long he had been standing there, staring. His hand kept reaching forward, then he would force his arm back down, locking it to the side of his body. On the fourth attempt, he grabbed a bottle of vodka. He didn’t even like the taste, but it sure would do the job, and it would do it quickly. God, relapsing shouldn’t require this much planning. That was the sad truth, once again, wasn’t it? Eddie’s life was filled with sad truths and this one was particularly pathetic, even for him. Waking up in the morning and putting  _ “Buy alcohol”  _ and _ “Drink” _ on your to-do list had to be a new low. And here he was, thinking he couldn’t go any lower.  _ That’s what you get for not keeping your expectations in check. Hats off to you, Eds. _

He twirled the bottle around in his right hand, a bag of sliced bread dangling from his left.  _ Are you gonna do it, or what? You can stop the pain very easily. Just a few sips, Eddie, come on. Maybe the answer to your problems is at the bottom of the bottle. Just because it never worked before, doesn’t mean it won’t now. Just a couple of fingers, maybe four. Four, definitely four. Four fingers and it won’t feel like this anymore, you won’t feel so much anymore. You’ll sleep well, you won’t dream. Why fight who you are? You’re so concerned with trying to find yourself… Why? Maybe this is just who you are. Maybe you were meant for nothing. Maybe the American Dream means to kill yourself trying to achieve it. _

Eddie’s grip on the bottle grew tighter, his fingers turning white. On the other side of the aisle, behind the shelves, one Richie Tozier watched, frozen in place.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find this AU on twitter [HERE](https://twitter.com/attorneysAU)


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